Title: Contraband
Chapter 6: Can't Get it Out of My Head
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: This is the penultimate chapter of this story (remember, it means second to last, not super ultimate—like Finn thought).
What you need to know about the past is that no matter what has happened, it has all worked together to bring you to this very moment. And this is the moment you can choose to make everything new. Right now. –Author Unknown
Can't Get it Out of My Head
Friday morning found Rory sitting at her desk, staring at a time line. Marie was next to her, staring as well. They'd been going over the details for a couple of hours, but not coming up with anything new.
"It just doesn't add up," Rory complained with knit brows.
"Not without knowing who's lying," Marie agreed. Rory started to draw the timeline again. "Why are you doing that? It's going to look the same as all the others. You've already thrown several timelines out. The only one you haven't thrown away is the one that isn't in your handwriting."
"I'm just thinking that if I go through it enough times, something will jump out at me."
"Nothing's jumped so far." Marie leaned back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling. "Maybe no one is lying."
"But someone is. That's why the witness accounts aren't lining up."
"Sure. But how can they line up? If someone snuck out the window, they would be the one who's messing up the time line."
Rory frowned at the suggestion. "That's true."
"If someone was in the bathroom and snuck out and then back in later, the times aren't going to match. For instance, if Amy was the one who climbed out and her aunt saw her leave the restroom, it doesn't mean one is lying, you just don't know when it was—before or after she snuck out. Sarah could still have been there when Amy was, too. The times wouldn't line up if Amy was there twice."
"That is true. But what about Amy's fingerprints not matching?"
"Hey, I don't have all the answers. That was just a suggestion."
"And not a terrible one. I wonder if they thought of that."
"Who?"
"The police," Rory said, picking up her phone and dialing.
"Are you helping them now? That's a twist."
"We're just . . . sharing information. Helping each other, that's all."
"Uh-huh. Are there any other itches you're scratching for each other?"
"Nope," Rory retorted as she listened to the phone ring. She wasn't sure if she wanted anyone to answer or not. It didn't matter though, no one did. She stood up and put on her jacket.
"Going somewhere?" Marie asked.
"I didn't get an answer. I'm going to go down to the twenty-first. I don't have anything else to do until they get somewhere. I've already talked to everyone—more than once."
"Oh, I see. Good idea."
"What's with that devious smile you're wearing?"
"You spend a lot of time chasing after that Detective DuGrey," the other woman said innocently.
"I don't chase after anyone, least of all him. Take my word for it, nothing is going on there. The only thing I chase is a story."
"Sure."
"I'll be back in a little while," Rory said in parting as she walked away from her desk.
NNNNNNNNNNNNNN
A short time later, Tristan was at his desk, looking down at something in front of him. He noticed someone sit down in the chair next to him, but he didn't look up from his work.
"Can I help you?" he asked vaguely.
"Maybe, it depends on what kind of help you're offering," Rory answered cavalierly.
He looked up in surprise. "Oh, hi," he said. He only sounded slightly uneasy today.
"Hello. How are you?"
"Fine. You?"
Rory rolled her eyes. Not this again. She had already decided that she would act natural. So she powered on. "I'm dandy. But I require your services," she said as she flipped through her notebook.
"We talked to Amy before we let her go yesterday. You were right, she said the other person—Sarah—used the air drier after she washed her hands. So it was loud in there. Dana swears she saw Amy leave a minute or two before she went in and no one else was in the restroom with her. And she said the window was open. Stevenson is getting her fingerprints in the system now."
Rory nodded once and made a note. "You're being weird," she assessed.
"No I'm not."
"Yes you are."
"How am I being weird?"
"I just gave you two opportunities to make lewd remarks and you didn't make any."
"You came for information and I gave it to you."
"I know. But you usually have your fun first."
"You don't like that."
"It's who you are, you can't help it. I've accepted it."
"I obviously can help it."
"Don't change who you are on my account."
"I thought it would be uncouth."
"Of course it would be, but that's never stopped you before. I can either play along or roll my eyes—it's my choice. I can handle whatever you dish out."
"What is wrong with you?" he calmly asked.
"Nothing is wrong with me. I told you we were fine, so we're fine. Now I'm acting normal, but you're being weird."
"Again, no I'm not. You're sense of normal seems skewed though."
She sighed in frustration. "Just be you, don't worry about me."
"Fine. I'll say something really vulgar next time. Happy?"
"Yes, thank you." Tristan shook his head like she was crazy. "Now, I didn't just come for information. I knew you wouldn't have much. I was looking at the timeline with my co-worker and she suggested that no one is lying."
"But someone is lying."
"Yes, but what are they lying about? The window? Or when they were in the bathroom? Maybe all three were in there when they say, but one of them was in there twice." Tristan eyed the notepad with the timeline he'd drawn as Rory continued. "See, we need to find out if the three women were in the restroom at the time Jason was pushed off, or when people found out. That would account for the time discrepancy. Someone was in there both times."
"We need to find?"
"You need to find."
"I guess that theory would be right."
"So maybe Amy did sneak out and when she came back in, she left before Dana went in."
"But the finger—"
Rory waved her hand and interrupted. "I know, I know. They don't match. What is it with you and proof?"
"It's kind of important in my line of work."
"Fine, maybe they got wiped off or something. The point is, Sarah was in there the same time as Amy and then Dana went in. But we don't know which end of the ten minutes is correct. And the lying about the window is messing up the timeline. Unless there was a fourth person we don't know about, but I prefer not to think about that."
"Well, Sarah will be here soon, so I'll see what I can find out."
"Sounds good. Why is this so hard?" Rory said with a sigh and looked at Tristan pointedly.
He'd been thinking about the facts and came out of his reverie when he noticed that she was staring at him. "Oh, uh, that's what she said?" he said with an arched brow.
She gave him a piteous look. "That wasn't quite up to par with your usual wisecracks. But I suppose it will work for now."
"I'm not used so much pressure."
"Cannot perform under pressure, noted."
"I'd perform more than adequately if you'd just give me the chance," he said without thinking. He brightened a bit when he realized what he'd said. "Oh hey, I'm back."
"Now doesn't that feel better?"
"A little." He looked at something beyond Rory. "There's my lunch date."
She turned around quickly and relaxed when she saw that it was merely Sarah Steinberg. "Oh, well, I'll get out of your hair then."
"All right. Thanks for the idea."
"No problem. I'll see you Monday—probably."
"Yeah, probably. See you later, Mary."
Rory left and Tristan stood up to greet Sarah. He led her into the small interrogation room and they both sat down.
"Sarah, can you tell me what you did after you talked with your nephew Tuesday night?"
"I got up and went to the open bar, by my husband. And I didn't see anyone walk out to the terrace when Jason went out there."
"That's okay, that's not what I was going to ask. What did you do after you had a drink?"
"I had to use the restroom."
"Was anyone else in there?"
"Amy was. I saw her walk in a couple minutes earlier."
"Right. Do you know if she opened the window at all?"
"No. Although that reporter you were just talking to said she did."
"She's pretty sure she closed it," Tristan said, thinking quickly about how he could use Rory's lie to his advantage. "But she can't quite remember whether she did or not. Can you recall? We're getting everyone's fingerprints to see whose match."
"The reporter must have left it open. Because I was cold when I went in, so I closed it."
"You did?"
"Yes."
"And Amy was in there when you went in?"
"That's what I said. Do you think she may have snuck out?"
"What?"
"Do you think Amy snuck out the window after I left?"
"Why do you ask?"
"I spoke with her mother this week and she mentioned it."
"Really? I wasn't sure if your two families were on speaking terms."
"We've spoken some."
"I see. Now, this is important, when were you in the restroom? Was it when word was starting to spread about Jason or about ten minutes before?"
"It was when someone found him. I came out when things were getting chaotic."
"And you're sure Amy was in there still, when you left?"
"Yes."
"Mm-hmm. Excuse me," Tristan said as he stood up and walked out of the room. Mark was watching at the window. They stood next to each other and looked in the room for a moment. "How long have you been watching?"
"Long enough to be confused," Mark answered.
"Yup. She didn't even need my help to twist that up."
"Since when did Lois Lane open the window?"
"She didn't. She only told her that," Tristan answered, nodding at the woman in the room.
"Ah." They stood in thought for a while longer.
"Well, how about you take a crack at her before you get her fingerprints. We'll still have to let her go. If her prints match, ask the lab where they were," Tristan said, moving his hands as though he was opening and closing a window. "I'm going to go upstairs and ask Jacobs for a subpoena—or two."
NNNNNNNNNNNNNN
Rory was sitting on her couch that evening, papers spread out on her coffee table. She was going over everything from the last two weeks and her head was starting to hurt. Something just wasn't right. But she couldn't figure out what. She thought about everyone she'd spoken with, but she didn't know who to trust. She had an idea, but wasn't so sure if she had the guts to go through with it. She was contemplating the merits of her plan when there was a knock at the door. She got up to answer and found Lucy and Olivia in the hallway.
"Hey girls, come in," she said with a smile, moving out of the way so they could come in and sit in her living room.
"We're thinking about going out on the town tonight and were wondering if you wanted to come along. It looks like you need a break from all this work."
"Oh, I was just doing some thinking. Were you going to take your car, Lucy?"
"Yeah, why?"
"I was thinking about borrowing it, but don't worry about it."
"Are you sure? Because we could always take the subway or a cab. Both would make a designated driver unnecessary."
"No, that's okay. I have a Plan B."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm not sure yet. But thanks for the offer to go out."
"Don't work too hard."
"I won't, I promise."
"Hey," Olivia started, "were you with a guy Wednesday night?"
"Oh, uh, yeah. That was just an old friend. I told him about my piece in The New Yorker and he wanted to read it."
"Ah. Well, you're sure you don't want to come out with us?" Olivia asked. "We're really fun."
"I know you are. And yes, I'm sure. But thanks, really."
After the two women were gone, Rory stared at her coffee table for a couple minutes, wondering if her scheme was stupid. She took a deep breath and picked up her cell phone. She found the name she was looking for and dialed.
"Hello?"
"Tristan, hi. It's me—Rory," she started.
"I know. Your name popped up. What is it?"
"Well, I've been thinking and thinking about everything with this case and something is fishy, really fishy," she rambled. "And I have a feeling."
"A feeling?"
"Yes, a feeling. I want to go to Tenth Avenue."
"What for?"
"I don't know. I just want to sit and wait to see if anything happens—anything suspicious."
"So, what, you want to do a stake out?"
"Kind of."
"Why are you calling me about this?"
"Well, I was wondering if you wanted to come along."
"To stake out Tenth Avenue," he stated dryly.
"Yes." Rory could practically hear the wheels turning in Tristan's head over the phone. She wondered if he was deciding if it was a stupid idea. Or whether or not he could keep his hands to himself.
"Don't take this the wrong way, Doll Face. But your intuition isn't going to stand up in a court of law."
"I know. But maybe we'll see something sinister go down. You don't have to go along, if you have something else you're doing. I know it is Friday night."
There was a pause as he thought some more. Finally, he sighed heavily. "All right. Do you need a ride?"
"A ride would be swell."
"Fine, I'll be right over."
"Okay, I'll see you soon."
Rory went into her bedroom and changed her clothes, putting on a black shirt with a pair of jeans. She went back to the living room and placed her notes and research in a couple of file folders. She stuffed everything in her purse. After fifteen minutes had gone by, there was a buzz on the intercom next to the door.
She hurried over to it and pressed the button. "Hello?"
"Hey, I'm here," Tristan answered.
"I'll be right down." She put on a jacket and picked up her purse before leaving the apartment. When she got outside, she found Tristan leaning on the wall next to the door. He had on jeans and a grey T-shirt under a suit jacket. "Do you wear a blazer everywhere you go?" she asked him.
He looked down at himself and shrugged. He took off the jacket to reveal a black long sleeve shirt under the short sleeve grey one. "Better?"
"Do you ever think about wearing more color?" she inquired as he walked around his car and unlocked the doors.
"I left my amazing Technicolor dream coat in my closet," he answered wryly. "Plus, I think you provide enough color in my life."
"What would you do without me?" she asked as she got into the car.
"Probably get more sleep at night," he grumbled to himself.
"You had other plans tonight, didn't you?" she asked when they were both in the Camaro.
"Don't worry about it."
"No, really, did you have other things you were doing?"
"I said don't worry about it," he said, more warningly.
"You were on a date, weren't you?" she went on, somewhat accusingly.
"Do you have a hearing problem?"
"If you had something else to do, you should have said no. I don't want to make you do something you don't want to do."
"Rory, drop it. I don't do things I don't want to do."
"You didn't want to go to Hartford this week, but you did that."
"That was different. Doesn't your family ever make you do things you don't feel like doing?"
"Well, yeah, but—"
"Then forget it. If I'm here, it's because I chose to be. End of story."
"Fine." Neither said anything for a while as Tristan drove them in the direction of Tenth Avenue. "So, was it a second date?"
"What?" he asked incredulously.
"You had a date last Saturday. Was it the same girl?"
"No."
"Oh."
Several more minutes went by before Tristan felt like talking again. "Question. Do you have a car?"
"Uh, no. Not since I've been in the city. I used to have a Prius. But my grandparents didn't want me driving it after Toyota had problems with their breaks a few years ago."
"You mean you didn't want to rear-end someone?"
"Not if it could be avoided. Why do you ask about my transportation?"
"I assume you weren't planning on keeping watch in the bushes. So, I see why you asked me to join you. You needed a car."
"Not exactly. My friend has a car I could have borrowed. But I thought police reinforcements wouldn't be a bad idea. You know, if something does happen. And I mean, I like your car. It's no Prius, but it's nice."
"Thanks, I like it too. And I knew it wasn't a Prius when I bought it. Driving a Toyota wasn't very American of you."
"That's true. I didn't know you were so patriotic."
"Well, Uncle Sam and I, we're like this," he said, crossing his fingers.
"Got it. But your car wasn't the only reason I asked you to do this tonight. I wanted to talk to you."
"About what?"
"About my investigation," Rory said as Tristan parked on Tenth Avenue where they could watch both Steinberg houses.
"What investigation?"
"The one I did on you," she answered, taking out one of her folders.
"Do you have a file on me?" he asked in disbelief.
"Maybe."
"That has my name on it, let me see it," he exclaimed as he reached over.
But Rory held the file away. "I'll tell you what I found, calm down. I'll even give you the chance to defend yourself, if need be. And I'm sure you'll do great if it comes to that."
He put his hand back down and sulked a little. "Fine. Did you find sufficient answers to your questions?"
"I did. Albeit my research also raised some questions I didn't know I had along the way."
"Well, let's see what you've got then."
"To start with, I had to go back to nineteen eighty-four to figure out your parents' names. Did you know how little information birth announcements had in the eighties? It didn't even have your name. It only said that a DuGrey couple had a boy on July thirteenth and I assumed it was you."
"So you figured out that I'm a boy? You're blowing me away with your mad mystery solving skills."
"I just needed to find your parents' names, so then I could really get down to work. Because let's face it, your deviant behavior had to have been the result of issues at home."
"Clearly."
"Anyway, there were a lot of articles about your dad. He's a lawyer?"
"Correct."
"His name was in the paper a lot. He defended a lot of big corporations."
"Right again—someone has to defend those white collar criminals."
"So I thought that maybe he was gone from home a lot."
"Fairly often."
"And that all sounds pretty Cats in the Cradle. But those articles spanned several years, so it wouldn't make sense for you to all of a sudden act out, if you were used to that your whole life."
"You have a different theory then?"
"I did after I saw the stuff about your parents' divorce."
"There you have it."
"I thought I did."
"You were wrong?"
"Yeah, and I know, mark the day down."
"I will later. Well, hit me with it, Nancy Drew."
"You really don't want to just tell me?"
"And take the big reveal away from you? You've clearly done a lot of work here."
"All right. A nasty divorce sounds hard on a kid, sure. But then I saw that they both remarried."
Tristan shrugged his shoulders. "It happens."
"But for them it happened like five minutes before the ink dried on the divorce papers. They both moved on remarkably fast and it was all in two thousand and one, Tristan."
"You don't have to remind me of the year," he said tonelessly. "There was someone younger for him, someone wealthier for her, and military school for me. Everyone wins. But it straightened me out, so it did its job."
"That's kind of lame."
"I know. My parents are lame."
"No, I was talking about you."
"What about me?"
"You're not the only one whose parents split. I'm not impressed as for as motives go. Paris had parental problems, but she didn't make trouble."
"No, she didn't get into trouble, but didn't she make some trouble by spreading a rumor about you and a teacher?"
"No. It was about my mother and a teacher."
"Same thing."
"It is not."
"Either way, when it was my turn to go though it, I gave everyone at school something else to talk about. We all have our coping mechanisms. Sorry if it wasn't a good reason in your opinion. No one said motives had to be good."
"I guess that's true. Anyway, that's not all I found. I saw a few more birth announcements, you have some half siblings."
"Do I? I don't really keep track."
"What do you mean?" she asked, turning to him.
He took his eyes off the houses and looked at her. "I don't go around there much—to Hartford. I go sometimes to see my grandfather, obviously, but that's it. My parents and I don't speak to each other, if we can help it."
"Boo hoo," Rory said as she looked back outside.
"Sorry?"
She turned back to him. "I said boo hoo. I've heard it all, as far as baggage with parents go. My dad wasn't around when I was going up. He had a bad relationship with his father. My mom has had issues with her parents since—probably since she was born. Paris's parents suck. If I had a nickel for every kid born with a silver spoon in their mouth who doesn't get along with their parents, I'd be rich."
"It sounds like you couldn't quite pay for a game of Pinball, actually," he countered. "And weren't you born with a silver spoon, too? You have a trust fund and went to expensive schools."
"I was and I wasn't. My mother was born into it, so I was by extension. But she left that world, so I wasn't raised in it. And okay, I have spent enough time with my grandparents to know that kind of life is terrible. They have their own big plans and try to control everything—"
"They do."
"And they're manipulative—"
"They are."
"And I know that Tolstoy said every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. But if you're from a socially prominent family, the unhappiness is usually for the same reason. It seems like everyone either ends up grudgingly accepting their fate or breaking free."
"Well, I broke free."
"Then good for you." There was a short lull before Rory spoke again. "Sorry if I sounded harsh. I've always been close to my mom. The very few exceptions when we weren't were really hard for both of us."
"Now that's weird."
"I don't know how you just don't speak to your parents at all."
"It's actually not too hard when you live in a different state. It's not like they want to see me anyway."
"You're their kid, why wouldn't they want to see you?"
"I just remind them of some mistake they made thirty years ago. Besides, they both have do-over families to make them happy."
"But you're still their son," Rory protested.
He shrugged again. "Son, disappointment. The two are pretty much synonymous."
"What have you done to disappoint them?" she asked doubtfully.
"You mean besides embarrassing them by committing a felony? Shipping me off to North Carolina was actually one of the last things they ever agreed on."
"But that was a long time ago. Surely they're over it by now."
"How many privileged brats do you know who have grown up to carry around a lethal weapon?"
"Just the one," she admitted.
"Exactly. After I went to the wrong school, I chose the wrong career—not everyone finds it respectable. So you see. I've been a big let down for a pretty long time now."
"I am sorry you don't have relationships with them, Tristan," Rory said honestly.
"It's okay, I can take it. So, finish it up, you probably know more about them at this point than I do. Did you find anything else?"
"I did. But it was just some stuff about you."
"Oh. Anything interesting?"
"Well, I didn't find any arrests or convictions. So I assumed you successfully stayed out of trouble."
"Or my public record has been expunged, like yours," he joked, but she looked at him seriously, so he amended his answer. "I've been a good boy."
"Anyway, there was a boring blurb in the paper about you starting Harvard after graduating military school."
"That does sound boring," he said with a grin. "What did I study there? You've known all week, at least."
"This is true. I'm very thorough in my research. It was history and government."
"Yes it was."
"Ah, government," she said and sighed nostalgically. "I participated in government once—it was a lifetime ago, at least—but I was student body vice president, at some else's insistence. And she only tried to impeach me the one time."
Tristan smirked a little. "That sounds like it would have been a lot like the Reign of Terror."
"Oh, no. She didn't pull a Robespierre until she was the editor of the Yale Daily News. That was when things got scary."
"I can imagine."
"No, I don't think you really can unless you've experienced it. There was a coup and I was named her successor as a result."
"Congratulations—both for being editor and for surviving. Paris probably had to restrain herself from killing you in your sleep."
"Probably. But she settled with kicking me out of the apartment."
"Bummer. Hey, speaking of Paris, I got an e-mail from her this week."
"Huh, out of the blue? That's weird."
"I know. Especially since she had no way of knowing where I live or what I do. Much less where I work."
"Did I mention how weird that all is? Because it's weird that she would know that."
"Oh, I know. I thought it was quite a coincidence that she contacted me shortly after I ran into you."
"That is a weird coincidence."
"You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
"Me? No, of course not," Rory said innocently as she shook her head—before she cringed guiltily. "I'm lying."
"I know."
"She just asked for your information. She was wondering if you've really grown up."
"And?"
"I've been leaning toward yes."
"I guess it had to happen some time."
"I suppose."
"You know, when I was at Harvard, it could be said that I spent a little too much time in the Kennedy School of Government building—they offer criminal justice classes."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Princeton doesn't offer any."
"Oh?"
"No, neither does Yale."
"Would Princeton happen to be the 'right' school? That's where your dad went."
"That is correct. You really are thorough."
"Harvard is definitely better than Princeton."
He nodded. "Thank you for finally admitting that."
She smiled. "No problem. I'd even go so far as to say that it's the dollar store of Ivy League schools."
He grinned back at her. "Well, I appreciate the comparison."
"I'm here to please."
"So," he said wearily. "Is there anything else you feel the need to bring up?"
She considered the question thoughtfully for a moment before closing the file and answering. "Well, I actually want to give you the option to acknowledge or include any additional details," she replied slowly. "Do you have any . . . closing arguments you'd like to make?"
His eyes rested on the closed file folder as he mulled over her offer. He looked up at her with an appreciative smile and shook his head when he answered. "No."
"You believe I've uncovered all the particulars?"
"I am absolutely certain you have. You conducted a meticulous investigation. I'm confident you now know all my secrets—and definitely more than most," he said cautiously. "You pointed out the events that I consider noteworthy. Thank you for the offer though."
Rory looked back at him calmly. "Okay then. And you're welcome. But I don't think I know all your secrets."
"I don't have a wife and kids hidden away in New Jersey or anything."
"Sure."
"You found everything. I'd be willing to bet you even got your hands on a picture of me in a uniform."
She smiled deviously. "I did find one. And don't worry, you made it look good."
"That is true," he said self-assuredly.
"Well, I have nothing further, so I declare this case closed."
"Sounds good to me."
They lapsed into silence for some time, just looking down the street at the two houses.
"You know, half siblings aren't so bad. I have a couple," Rory commented.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, a sister and a brother. Plus, a step-sister."
"While I'm happy for you, that your parents can incorporate you in their new families, it's okay that mine don't. I'm grown, I don't need them. I can live on my own just fine."
"If you say so, tough guy."
"I do say so."
They continued to gaze down the street without talking.
"This isn't exactly how I spend most of my Friday nights," Tristan stated after a while.
"I'm sorry you cancelled your date just to sit here with me, my feeling might be wrong after all."
He shrugged his shoulders. "It doesn't matter. She'd probably just bore me with details from the latest season of Dancing with the Stars."
"Why waste your time with someone if you know you won't be interested in what she has to say?" Rory asked, starting to feel that annoying twang of jealousy again, not to mention frustration with her companion.
"I'm usually okay with the way it ends," he answered.
"You're disgusting," she retorted.
"No, I'm just an adult male, not that I recall asking your opinion. And for the record, I'm not quite the man-whore I'm sure you think I am. I may have some lothario-like tendencies, but Byron and Shaw won't be writing any works of literature about me."
"Well sure, it'd be hard for dead people to do that."
"I meant because I'm not Don Juan. Just because there are fifty-two weeks in a year, it doesn't mean I've seen the same number of women."
"Some get more than one date?"
"No. Some weekends I stay in," he answered seriously.
"Wouldn't you rather go to dinner with someone you could actually spend more than one night with? You could enjoy a person's company in settings other than your bedroom—sorry, her bedroom."
"That sounds a lot like a girlfriend."
"Well, yeah, but wouldn't it be less work?"
"How do you figure?"
"You'd have a standing date. You wouldn't have to find a new girl every week. You could know who you're going to be with Friday night without wondering on Tuesday."
"It's not hard for me."
"That's what she said," Rory said snidely.
"It's not difficult to find girls willing to spend a night with me," he amended without acknowledging her insult.
"But it obviously is difficult to find someone you would want to have breakfast with the next morning."
He sighed impatiently. "What makes you so sure they'd want to stick around that long?" Rory gasped at this and he looked at her. "What?"
"Oh my God, you're afraid of rejection."
"No I'm not. Did you hear me when I said I don't have problems finding women?"
"Finding them, sure. But you feel rejected by your parents, so now you don't commit to any one person because you're afraid she'll discard you, too, the way they did."
"That's crazy."
"It is not. It makes complete sense. That's why you only date girls who need to take a trip down the yellow brick road. You have one night of fun without any chance of getting attached and then leave before they do. You act so tough and detached, but you're really hiding the fact that you're vulnerable."
"I am not," Tristan exclaimed in annoyance. "So you can stop psycho-analyzing me, Freud."
"You are too. If not, then why don't you pick one girl? One whose company you actually enjoy and can carry on a real conversation with?"
"So now I need a girlfriend and she has to be smart?"
"It wouldn't kill you."
"It might."
"Well if it does, I won't have any trouble solving the mystery."
"So, you went to Yale, does that make you smart?" he threw back at her.
She looked at him and hoped he couldn't hear her heart beating—it seemed to be thumping louder all of a sudden. "In some circles, I might be considered somewhat bright."
He nodded his head once, looking outside as Rory plowed on. "But I might be biased about all this. I'm terrible on dates with guys I don't know very well—I have no idea what to talk about. And I'm definitely not programmed to date more than one person at a time. I'm either in or out. There's no half way with me."
"Can I ask you something?"
"Uh, sure."
"I'm not really sure how to ask you this," he said slowly.
"Then just ask," she instructed, her thumping heart sped up when he looked at her.
"Rory?"
"Yes?"
"Have we had this conversation before? At least part of it? Because it feels eerily similar to one I've had already."
She swallowed before she answered. "Well, it evidently didn't sink in the first time," she said, recovering.
"Possibly because the advice you gave was awful."
"It was not."
"You told me to date Paris."
"Okay, one might say that I went too far in that suggestion."
"One might say? I can think of three people that it didn't work out so well for."
"Fine. But I still stand by the first part. You're intelligent—and at this point, very well educated. You ought to spend your time with someone who can appreciate that and keep up."
"Maybe."
"No, not maybe," she retorted impatiently. "You do. Don't let your parents define your sense of worth. For someone with such a large ego, you sure carry around a decent level of self-loathing."
"I guess overcompensating balances me out."
"I don't know about that."
It was a couple minutes before Tristan spoke again. "Smart girls can be just as dense as the regular ones," he muttered sourly.
"What do you mean?" she asked with a frown.
"I mean that once a smart girl gave me not-entirely-bad-advice, but wasn't quite sharp enough to figure out which smart girl I wanted to date," he explained pointedly.
Rory thought about that for a moment. Comprehension dawned, but guilt did not. "And if she had figured it out—and had any interest at all—what would a date with sixteen-year-old-Tristan have looked like? Paint me a picture."
He pondered on this for a few seconds before replying. "I'd try to impress her by going to an expensive restaurant—"
"She probably wasn't interested in extravagant things," Rory interjected.
"Next, we'd go to a movie," he continued.
"You probably had terrible taste in movies back then," she interrupted again.
Tristan was getting annoyed with her. "And the night would most likely have ended with me doing a performance of that song John Travolta sings after Olivia Newton-John leaves him stranded at the drive-in."
"I appreciate your brutal honestly," Rory started. "Now, here's a truth you couldn't get through your hard head back then. That girl wasn't at all interested in that stuff with you—not in high school. You made a bad first impression and never improved on it much."
"And no one gets a second first impression," he added dejectedly.
"No," she agreed forcefully. "But everyone does grow up."
"Do they?"
"Yes. And in doing so, some provide evidence that they've changed their character—for the better," Rory said before going on, quieter. "And others can change their mind as a result."
Neither said anything after that. Both sat in silent reverie. They sat in the Camaro until both of their heads fell back on their seats and their eyelids dropped as they fell asleep.
NNNNNNNNNNNNNN
NNNNNNNNNNNNNN
Rory woke up feeling drowsy the next morning. She rubbed her eyes and wondered where she was. She massaged her neck and turned to Tristan, who was still asleep. She was too tired to do anything but sit. She looked down the street and saw that the two Steinberg houses were still looking unsuspecting. She wasn't sure how much time went by before someone came out of Sarah and Roman's house. It was their younger son, who was high school age. The brown haired boy was carrying a red purse. Odd, Rory thought. Then she gasped when she realized whose purse it was. She didn't move her eyes from the boy as she hit Tristan on the shoulder roughly.
"Tristan," she hissed.
He snatched her wrist with quick reflexes. She looked over, startled.
"Stop."
"Sorry, look," she said, nodding over at the boy.
"Is that Roman's kid?"
"Yes."
"I didn't know he swung that way."
"What?"
"He has a purse. Most straight guys don't carry them around. At least, I don't."
"That isn't his," she reprimanded as the boy rang the bell at his aunt's house. Amy came to the door and took it. "I saw it sitting on a table in their foyer Wednesday. Sarah said she picked it up at the reception Tuesday night because Ann or Amy forgot it."
"It took her four days to get it back? They live two doors away."
"I know. Go see what's in it," Rory eagerly instructed.
"What?"
"Yeah. That's suspicious, don't you think? That it took so long to get it back."
"Maybe she just forgot."
"Aren't you curious about what's in it?"
"Curiosity killed the cat, you know."
"Well, give me a whip and call me Catwoman, because I'm curious."
"Kinky."
"Come on, don't you want to know what's in that purse, especially since it's been sitting in someone else's house since the night someone was killed?"
"Maybe a little, since you keep going on about it."
"Then get in there."
Tristan looked at Rory like she was off her rocker. "I can't."
"What are you talking about? Just wave that badge and go on in."
"It doesn't work like that. I can speed though red lights and carry a concealed weapon, but people have a legal right not to let me barge into their homes."
"Why?"
"Well, due process, mostly. Surely you know this."
"Yes, but it's still stupid."
"Blame King John. That's what I usually do in situations like this. He's the one who signed the Magna Carta."
"Oh, I will be blaming him all right. Okay, what if you got invited in?"
"What, like a vampire?"
"Yes, just like a vampire."
"I'm not sure they'd be happy to see me at this point."
"Can you get a search warrant?"
"Uh, on what grounds?"
"That's for you to figure out. I'm just spit-balling here."
"I could maybe call a judge I know."
"Would that be going over Jacobs' head, would he be mad at you?"
"Like I care. I do what I want."
"Oh. Right. Hey, what if I go in?" Rory asked. "You won't need a warrant if I don't find anything worth searching for."
"How are you going to go in?"
"I could say I'm writing an article and want an interview . . . because I don't think Amy is guilty and I want her point of view. I can get on her good side by sympathizing with her."
"But how would you find out what's in her bag?"
"I don't know, I'll improvise. What's a good reason to get into someone else's purse?"
"If you're mugging them?"
"I don't think that will work."
"Neither do I."
"I'll think of something. Just let me go in."
"Fine."
Rory took her own purse and got out of the car. Tristan watched her as she went up to Ann's house and rang the bell. Amy answered and listened to what Rory had to say. She must have bought it, because she let Rory into the house.
NNNNNNNNNNNNNN
Not long after Rory went into the house, Tristan's phone rang. He saw her name on the caller ID before he answered.
"Hello?"
"Okay, you need to come in now," Rory told him hurriedly.
"What is it?"
"You should come and see."
"Did you really get into her purse?" he asked in wonder.
"Sure, it was easy. I just innocently asked for some gum. Now get in here. Amy just went to call her mom to come home. Oh, maybe you should wait a few minutes, so it doesn't seem like you're waiting right outside."
"You think?" Tristan asked sarcastically. He waited for Ann to return home before he got out of his car and walked up to the house.
After he rang the bell, Ann answered, looking worried. "Detective, come in, come in."
Tristan went into the house. He was led to the kitchen, where Rory was sitting with Amy. The blonde woman looked extremely nervous. The purse was sitting in the center of the table.
"What did you need me to see?" he asked.
It looked like Amy didn't know what to say, so Rory spoke up for her. "Amy's purse was returned to her this morning and there's an item that wasn't in it before."
"Oh, all right. Let me see," Tristan answered, pulling the red bag to him. He looked inside and a perplexed expression overtook his features. "That looks like a Smith and Wesson," he commented.
"What's that?" Ann asked.
"A gun. It's actually the same kind your husband was killed with last week."
"Oh my God."
"I don't own any guns!" Amy exclaimed in a panic. "I haven't even seen my purse since . . . I guess Tuesday night. I forgot about it. My cousin just brought it over. I didn't even know what was in there until just now, I swear."
"You think someone is trying to set you up?"
"I guess. I just know I didn't do anything and that that isn't mine."
"Uh, Detective," Rory started, "could I see you in the next room?"
"Sure," he answered, he took the purse with him as they stepped into the living room.
"She's telling the truth. That wasn't in there when I saw it at Sarah's Wednesday."
"How do you know?"
"Because it was sitting open. I glanced in and only saw regular purse stuff. You don't have to arrest her, do you?"
Tristan sighed and went back into the next room. Rory followed.
"I'm going to have to take your bag to the police station to see if this gun killed your father. There's a chance that it isn't. But don't get any ideas about skipping town."
Amy had wide eyes and shook her head back and forth. "I'm not going to leave the house."
"Good."
He started to leave and Rory was going to follow again, but remembered her story. "We can talk another time," she said as she heard Tristan walk out the door. Before scampering off behind him, she added, "It might not be a bad idea to get a lawyer."
NNNNNNNNNNNNNN
"I can't believe it," Tristan said in awe as he drove them to the twenty-first precinct.
"I know. I got lucky with that one."
"You got really lucky."
"I told you I would be helpful. I told you."
"You told me," he agreed, shaking his head in disbelief.
NNNNNNNNNNNNNN
When Tristan and Rory arrived at the precinct, Tristan had the gun sent to ballistics. Rory waited while he spoke with the captain and the prosecutor.
"Now what?" Rory asked him when he was through.
"Now we wait for the results. It'll probably take a couple of days—they're busy down at the lab, plus tomorrow's Sunday," he answered. "I'm hungry, let's go get some breakfast."
"What?" she asked in surprise.
"You know, go eat food so we can break our fast," he explained, looking at his watch. "Then again, it might be brunch at this point."
"Okay, sure. Brunch sounds good, I'm starving," she answered as they headed for the door.
Ten minutes later they were seated at a booth next to the window at the same corner café they'd been at the previous Wednesday. They were looking over their menus when their waitress brought them coffee.
"You can just leave the pot here," Rory told the woman.
Tristan glanced up at her. "Are you going to drink all that? I'm only going to have a couple cups."
"Yes, I am, no worries," she answered.
"Okay then." He closed his menu when he'd made his decision and put some cream and sugar in his coffee. "Cream?"
She looked up. "No. I like my coffee black, like my men."
Tristan gave her a quizzical look. "Airplane!?"
"Yes. And I'll actually take some cream," she said.
"Just don't call me Shirley," he said as he handed over the tiny pitcher of white liquid.
The waitress returned and they placed their orders. Rory rolled her head around and rubbed her neck. "Your car doesn't make a good bed."
"No, but it makes a good car."
"I hadn't realized we were going to spend the night."
"Neither did I. But it worked out. We got the elusive smoking gun. Or at least, we may have."
"True."
After a few more minutes, their food came and conversation lulled as they ate. When Rory was half finished with her French toast, she spoke up. "I stole a yacht," she said before she took a sip of her coffee.
Tristan looked up from his waffles, perplexed. "What?"
"I stole a yacht," she repeated. "That's why I was arrested."
"You shouldn't have told me, grand-theft yachting was going to be my next guess."
"Sure it was," she said ironically. "Anyway, I didn't just feel like stealing it."
"What was your reason? It better be good."
"I'm not sure that it was. I was very upset after Mitchum Huntzburger told me that I didn't have what it took to be a journalist. So I stole a yacht with his son—who was my boyfriend at the time."
"Tell me more, tell me more. Like, did he have a car?" he asked dryly.
"Yes—a Porsche."
Tristan tilted his head at this, not amused. "You dated someone with a sports car?"
"Yes, in college. He'll inherit the family newspaper business someday—well, I think. I'm actually not sure any more—he used to have a large trust fund, too."
"I was clearly ahead of my time," Tristan commented in what could be considered a thinly veiled sulk.
"You were the Charlotte Bronte of our class," she agreed dryly.
"I guess I shouldn't be surprised that you'd go for a guy with a Porsche and a trust fund now, what with mine both being history."
"Why? Did you crash the car and gamble away your trust fund?"
"If only. After I got into trouble in high school, my father changed the terms to make sure I would finish college, and within a certain number of years. It's been a contingent trust for ages now. When I told him what I was going to be when I finished school, he changed the terms again. He didn't leave any loopholes, either. He's a lawyer, remember. My grandfather has been trying to get him to change his mind, but my dad is pretty stubborn. I guess that's where I get it from."
"I get it from my mother. So you're living off of a cop's salary?"
"Detectives earn more. And any investments made by family members in my name are legally mine. But other than that, yes."
"Was that why you had to go to Connecticut last week?" Rory asked.
"It wasn't the only reason, but it came up," he said. "Grandpa keeps trying to play the go-between, as though we'll ever negotiate successfully. One day he'll figure out it's all for naught. I don't really care anymore and it's not like two equally headstrong men are going to suddenly play nice. In fact, that's probably the reason I can't take my gun into the house when I go there."
"That seems like a fair assessment."
"As much as my grandfather tries to persuade me to . . . compromise, I just can't bring myself to do anything about it. I complied with the original terms and in doing so, I've come as close to the middle ground as I'm ever going to get," Tristan explained before going on. "I accepted a long time ago that I'm not going to see that money. And I it made clear when I left the Porsche sitting in the old man's drive way. The old man being by dad, not my grandfather—though he is old. Anyway, I wasn't going to be bought."
"I see. Was that when you got your current mode of transportation?"
"It was—almost to the day, in fact. I paid for it myself. I also got a loan from my grandfather to pay for the last of my schooling. How's that for breaking free?" he asked dryly as they continued to eat.
"It sounds like you sufficiently cut the umbilical cord."
"Mm-hmm. So, whatever happened with your Porsche guy?"
"Well, he had to turn in his car, when he made the break. But as for us as a couple, it just didn't work out in the end. In my experiences, when I don't tell a guy what he wants to hear, he decides he'd rather be alone."
"Some men are fickle that way."
"Apparently."
NNNNNNNNNNNNNN
After they finished eating their meal and Tristan paid, they went back to his car so he could drive Rory home. They rode without talking for several minutes before Tristan broke the silence.
"You're awfully quiet," he said.
"Being quiet isn't a crime now, is it?" she said shortly.
"No, it was just an observation. I can observe, can't I?"
"Do whatever you want, what do I care?"
"Are you sulking?"
"No, why would I be sulking?"
"I don't know, but you definitely sound hostile all of a sudden."
"I'm not hostile," she snapped.
"Well, you're being snippy."
"I can be snippy if I want to be snippy," she said testily. "Geez, leave me alone. You drive me up the wall."
"That doesn't have to be a bad thing," he leered.
She glared at him. "You see? That there."
"Yesterday you indicated you wanted me to make comments like that, because it's weird when I don't. It didn't make any sense—at all, but there you go. Now, I say the kind of thing you want me to say and you're mad."
"Well, I can be mad at you if I want to be mad at you. It's my prerogative."
"What's your problem?" he asked, getting annoyed himself.
"You are my problem."
"I didn't even do anything!"
"Yes you did. You showed up two weeks ago," she retorted. "And ever since then, I have gone crazy."
"I'm not arguing with that, but how is it my fault?"
"Because! You make smart-ass comments and get on my nerves."
"Well, you're getting on my nerves. I always do those things, you said it's who I am," he exclaimed as he parked the car at the art studio. They both got out and headed for the door next to the gallery.
"What are you doing?" she demanded angrily.
"I'm walking you upstairs. I figure if I give you a couple more minutes you'll tell me what I did to make you mad."
She opened the door and they both started up the stairs as they continued to argue. "Why? So you can apologize again, since you like to do that so much? You know, I've called you a lot of things, but I never pegged you as stupid until about Wednesday night."
"You're still mad about that? I said I was sorry about kissing you. What else am I supposed to do?"
"When was I ever mad about it? If I'm mad about anything, I'm mad that you lied to me."
"When?" He wasn't just annoyed now, but also confused.
"Thursday."
"What did I lie about Thursday?"
"You weren't sorry. You did what you wanted to do. We're not in high school any more, we're twenty-eight."
"I'm twenty-nine."
"I am too. Don't look at me like I'm crazy, it's a new twenty-nine, I'm not used to saying it. Plus, I lost track a few years ago, people stopped asking. Geez, thanks for reminding me how close to thirty I am."
"You've digressed," he said impatiently.
They had stopped in front of her door. Rory was unsuccessfully digging through her purse for her keys. "Right, what was I saying?"
"I think you were at me being stupid and a liar."
"Right. I know you fell through the cracks and were experiencing some rejection in high school—"
"Stop saying that. I'm not afraid of rejection, you silly woman," he interjected.
Rory continued as though he hadn't. "And I'm sorry if I added to that, but you were ahead of your time. Plus, it's not like you were ever the Great Communicator."
"So I wasn't responsible for the Iran-Contra Affair, that's not such a horrible thing," he replied. "What does this have to do with anything? You aren't making any sense."
"Of course I'm not making any sense. This whole thing doesn't make any sense—that's why I'm mad! We are adultsnow. Grown ups. We can act like it. You didn't have to come up with an excuse for doing what you wanted to do," she seethed.
"You are crazy. What are you talking about?"
"Wednesday!"
"I said I was sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I've been feeling stupid since then."
"Well great, I'm crazy and you're stupid. We're quite a pair."
"I'm still not following how the two are related."
"They're related because I kissed you back, you moron! I must be crazy for wanting to, but there you go." She glared at him and he glowered back. "You are the only one who's dense around here," she retorted defiantly and poked him in the chest to emphasize her point.
He grabbed her wrist tightly to stop her from poking him again. "Wait—"
"I didn't ask you to apologize, did I?"
"No—"
"Then why did you?" she demanded crossly.
"Mostly because I didn't know you weren't immune until very recently."
"Immune to what?"
"Not to what, to whom."
"Fine, I'm not immune to whom?" she asked angrily.
"To me—evidently," Tristan answered. "Now, I need to go home and process this, because it's all very new. I also need some Tylenol for the headache you're currently responsible for." He let her wrist go—somewhat roughly—and turned before she could respond.
She thought as quickly as she could before he got to the stairs. "Well, you've been giving me a headache for days now!"
"Good one—very witty," he said without turning around or stopping.
She watched for a moment as he disappeared down the steps before she turned the door knob. She realized that she hadn't unlocked the door yet and fumbled with her keys some more.